Some days, all the pain comes to a head,
And I'm lucky to get out of bed,
I know it seems trite,
But the sun is so bright,
It just brings on a feeling of dread.
A moment of peace, or pure joy,
of the gentle hand, or a caress,
and words light-hearted, that soothe,
and being, just being, with ease,
and patience, and simplicity,
and nothing can go wrong...
So the poet reminds me,
sadness has no end,
but happiness does.
in a minor mood
when the day is hazy
grey as winter shades away
drains white from the sky
and I beseeching blue return
more gently please in calmer
hues that smudge up
to the trees bounce the clouds
hold a breeze in open palms
you know this blue the kind
that coaxes out the green
is mainly what I mean
I would I still loved you,
I mean, I do, but not the same
as when we played the game
of making the flame between us
flare up with little fuss,
not even the rush of winter
could spoil, could not splinter,
or hinder in the littlest way.
What's there for me to say?
Come and play, it's better with two.
It starts with doubt
you create an ear behind
your ear stretching
in hope to hear what?
isn't there.
Something's quite different
it's obvious, though
you cannot tell why?
there's river where an ocean
should be.
You notice ringing
or a pulse electronic,
wave up, wave down
you search for it and
it's not anywhere, it's
everywhere, inside your head
relentless unstopping.
Sleep doesn't come but
if it comes, you're dreaming
of bells in the distance
or tires screeching and leaves
blowing by your head always
the river leaving.
When you wake up you remember
something's quite wrong but
you look at the mirror and
nothing is missing, except
sound.
"Sound is overrated," you
won't say, "not hearing must
be nice".
Patience
you talk ever so slowly so
slowly it becomes until
you can actually understand
again.
Walking down a street,
without destination,
being met by new sights,
and strange people, hearing
a language unknown,
and diving into a throng,
going with the flow, no control
over direction, exploring
and tasting different food
in stalls on the sidewalk or
quaint places downtown, then
having to mimic for directions,
and finally leaving it all behind.
Is it strange that these are things
that give me pleasure, and that
it is going home that makes me wistful?
I close my eyes to soak
in the soothing sound of music.
Bass and drum keep
a pace, and me in a lull,
swaying while the piano sings.
But it is the trumpet that holds me,
reaching sudden ups and downs,
and with its warm tune, inside.
I close my eyes, I'm elsewhere.
Not sure where, but everywhere
is the soothing sound of music.
Maybe I'm having a drink,
or, with the right company,
I might be dancing.
It doesn't matter;
for now, I'm elsewhere.
The map is spread; figures dotting
its surface while players are plotting
their next moves. Slipping in among
the ruins, avoiding the enemy throng,
seeking nothing special, just treasure.
Beyond, that is, a fun, simple, pleasure.
Resist this mood when winter comes;
If lacking strength, by will endure.
Hold on to friends, though night comes faster -
Resist this mood! - when winter comes,
their fire can keep at bay disaster.
Though night has ways to lie and lure,
Resist this mood. When winter comes,
If lacking strength, by will endure.
Beeps are annoying,
but, I suppose, that's the point,
they don't clang and clamor,
warning of impending danger,
simply chirp--over and over--
until someone either answers
them or turns them off,
But morning beeps are a
personal pet peeve, they are
just enough to draw me out of
REM and inject me back into
the waking world, although I
rose and looked, hand raised,
at my alarm clock before
realizing the beep came from
the computer, from someone
checking via Skype to see if
I was about. Which I wasn't
so sure about just then.
I grumbled my way to the laptop,
still smelling of warm blankets and
warmer dreams, pondering if she
would still be there if I managed
to return to bed, clicked the icon,
sighed to myself and passed a hand
over my head (pausing to glance
in the mirror as my fingers told me
my hair was badly out of sorts),
then ignored the beeping, shut it off,
headed back for more dreams
Why call me now? After all this time?
I shook my head and muttered little
things to keep her off my mind, then
stopped to finish a cup on the desk,
coughed as the "water" was melted ice
and vodka from the night before,
Great...these should be just wonderful
dreams. Simply perfect.
these things you took, they are all that I have.
(. . .)
take care what you do with them; I beg you, please,
these things you took, they are all that I have.
give me friendship, and patience; don't let me freeze,
don't let me be misunderstood, nor force me to lie.
these things you took, they were all that I had.
(. . .)